


Everything in its Right Place

by mysterious_man



Category: Hello From the Magic Tavern (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Gen, Oblique pop culture references, Tags Are Hard, improvised canon is tough, what if the only difference between comedy and tragedy is whether you laugh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 15:41:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15911271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysterious_man/pseuds/mysterious_man
Summary: In which Arnie Niekamp falls through a portal behind a Burger King into the magical, fantastical land of Foon. His first week is pretty rough, so he launches a podcast to cope.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wondered what happened in the first week in Foon and how the characters first met, so I decided to make an educated guess. I made myself rather sad. This work builds on established show canon, but exists in a space where there is little or none, so it may also contradict it now or in the future.

    The first strange thing was a small spot in Arnie Niekamp’s vision; a tiny region that seemed to be vibrating out of tune with the rest of reality. Faintly rainbow-colored, like an oil stain on the lens of the world. He thought that he’d heard of something similar heralding headaches, probably in a TV ad for some expensive medication with a name like a hamlet in an RPG. And, in fact, there was a rapidly radiating ache in his skull; brain cells jangling while he looked at the illuminated drive-thru menu. Now that he was sitting outside the Burger King with a canned voice asking him a second time for his order, he wasn’t completely sure why he’d come there. He’d found some safety in calling it hunger, the inexplicable anxiety building in him like electric energy before a storm. His errands were almost done, he just had to drop the podcasting equipment off at the storage unit and his beautiful, wonderful wife and his beautiful, wonderful new baby were waiting in his — well, comfortable home. Everything right as it should be. So why did something feel wrong?  
    Surely the uncertainty and the headache would be solved by some food, he thought, as he pulled forward to the next window.  
    The second strange thing was not the forest; but rather the drive-through, and the Burger King, and the street beyond, and all of Chicago, suddenly becoming the forest. That was definitely unexpected. The shift was almost instantaneous, though the sensation was highly unpleasant. One moment Arnie was pulling his car around, then the small unsteady spot in his vision consumed everything in a blinding instant, and his car was making an unfriendly, abrupt acquaintance with a very large tree. The Toyota engineers had not prepared for a collision with a tree minding its own business in another dimension, and so with no time to react nothing prevented Arnie from hitting the steering wheel and then the headrest in slapstick fashion, hard.  
    Reeling, his initial conclusion was that he’d been rear-ended; instinctively he turned off the car, undid his seatbelt, took his phone off the charger and got out, wondering whether the insurance information was in the glove compartment. He was quite surprised when he saw the only thing that could’ve struck him was a tree. In fact, all he could see was trees. Massive, old trees, much taller, moss-covered and whimsical of branch than the squat and hardy burr oaks he was used to. He was surprised again when the tree his car had been so rudely introduced to dropped a large limb, somewhat spitefully, onto the Camry’s hood with a bang. Startled, Arnie jumped backwards, nearly tumbling into a patch of cartoonishly large mushrooms in such improbable colors as to make blacklight posters look like National Geographic.  
    As the branch settled on the roof of his car, a few twigs raining down with faint pings, he was suddenly struck by how quiet it was. The low-level city buzz had vanished, and in fact even the sound of his alarmed breathing seemed swallowed up by the surroundings. Gripped by a rising sensation of fear, Arnie surveyed the surroundings more carefully and realized that it wasn’t just the impossibly huge and old trees, the ridiculously unlikely mushrooms, and the thickly moss-covered ground; he really couldn’t see anything else at all. No fences, or telephone wires, or the abrupt angles of buildings between the foliage like he’d expect even in a forest preserve. There was nothing but trees, fading into a green haze in the distance in all directions. The sky above wasn’t the flat, gray face of clouds it had been, either; it was the faded blue of the end of a clear day. Apart from the car, nothing was familiar; he was alone in a dense and trackless wood.  
    His phone. The thought offered a flash of solace as he registered that he was clutching it, but his hopes were quickly dashed. Wherever he was, suddenly, now, there was no signal. None at all. The service bars simply weren’t, replaced with an X. He flipped the phone in and out of airplane mode a few times, and even tried turning it off and on again since that was suddenly the only IT advice he could remember. He tried holding it aloft, in all directions. He tried shaking it, not because he thought it would help, but because it might help him. The swearing had no effect either. There was nothing. That, truly, was alone.  
    As the details fully took hold, Arnie found his head and his heart in a frantic relay of total panic. Rationally, he knew it was impossible to suddenly be in a forest, but there he was. Rationally, he knew that his Camry had not been going 88mph, and that the creaking and rustling he was starting to hear was just the breeze or birds amongst the leaves, and every childhood special had told him he should stay where he was. But rationality seemed to have taken an abrupt holiday and he wasn’t about to cover for it, so when he heard a branch snap loud as a gunshot he backed himself up against one of the ancient trees and fell to the ground, head in hands.  
    Trying to reign in his stampeding heart rate, he counted to ten with eyes closed tight, willing the entire scenario to be the result of a bad burrito or low blood sugar. But when he got up the courage to open his eyes again and look up, nothing at all had changed; except for a largish but otherwise ordinary bird, black with brown speckling amongst the iridescent sheen, regarding him curiously from a low branch.  
    “Where am I…?” he gasped, not specifically at the bird, since that would be ridiculous.  
    “Right the fuck here, asshole,” the bird quipped, tilting its head peevishly and glaring at him, then taking a massive shit as punctuation.  
    Arnie leapt away from the tree, with intent to flee back to his car; but he only managed one step before the world tipped up and over in a kaleidoscope of green, as he tripped on a vine that anyone might’ve sworn slid into just the wrong place at just the right time. All he saw were the trees as he fell, then a firebrand of white as he struck something hard and rolled into wet earth, and in one brief moment of clarity before it the whole impossible scene went dark he realized he was not getting that Whopper after all.

 

* * *

  
     Chunt would never have noticed anything out of the ordinary and moved right past on his business, if not for the pink shirt standing out from the surrounding greenery. It was the color of the slit belly of fresh salmon, and though it only made his stomach rumble louder, something made him curious. Curiosity was not a healthy trait in Foon, generally, and especially not in the woods. As a rule it was largely weeded out of the populace early, since as the saying went, “curiosity killed the child”. But Chunt was not the king of good decisions, so he moved closer anyway.  
    It was almost immediately clear that it was the prone form of a large man, easily three Chunts high. At first he thought maybe it was a local drunk who’d wandered in a stupor the wrong direction away from the Vermillion Minotaur; but none of their regular clientele could’ve been making such a fashion statement without it being widely remarked upon, probably in an especially cruel limerick. Chunt’s badger nose didn’t detect any scent of mead, either; if anything there was just the faintest touch of meat and oil. But there was also the sharp edge of blood tickling in his nostrils.  
    He wasn’t the only creature in the forest who’d caught the scent of vulnerability, either. The tendrils of a snuggle vine had already clambered their way round the man’s legs and were starting to go for the chest. Snuggle vines were excellent comfort to the despairing and injured, like a tight hug from a good friend; right up until the point they hugged the breath right out of their victims and then pulled what remained down into the ground to their waiting maw. Currently, it was gently caressing its prey’s hair.  
    Chunt hesitated for a moment, considering the scene; then pulled his warhammer off his back and directed a carefully targeted blow where the vines emerged from the mossy earth. The plant let out a surprised and slightly offended yelp, and almost immediately withdrew, dropping its intended prey. He’d have sworn one tendril made a rude gesture on the retreat.  
    Slowly, Chunt moved closer, uncertain if he’d had the timing for an actual heroic rescue or more of a debatably heroic looting. Not that he was married to which one. He gave the man an inquisitive nudge with his hammer.  
    “Hey…hey buddy, you…alive…?”  
    There was a muffled, weak moan in reply. Against his better sense, Chunt moved closer still. With some effort, he managed to get a shoulder under the stranger and roll him partway over. It was far enough to see the unfamiliar human’s face, a few leaves stuck in the dark beard from where he’d been lying face down on the forest floor, and a nasty gash along his temple. Not too deep, but enough. The man’s eyelids were fluttering, but didn’t stay open and the gaze failed to focus. If he left him here, it wouldn’t be long before the snuggle vine made a second go of it, or one of the many other local creatures came across him; and that would be that. Only two kinds of things spent any time in McShingleshane Forest: predators, and their meals, and he was clearly the latter by default. The sun was going down, as well, and darkness was not a friend to anything with good intentions.  
    “Hey, can you hear me? C’mon buddy, you gotta wake up. I can’t carry you to town unless you lose more than a few pounds…and a few feet.” Chunt sighed at the lack of response. He tried a sharp smack across the cheek with one paw, careful with his claws. “What’s your name?”  
    The gaze almost focused for a second. “A…Arnie…Niekamp…”  
    Chunt twitched an ear quizzically. Must’ve really taken one to the melon to develop a stutter, but whatever. Couldn’t very well expect random men you found in the woods to be sparklingly good at trivia, either, so maybe it was chronic.  
    “All right…Arnie, I’m Chunt, and it’s time to get UP.” Chunt landed a swift kick to the man’s abdomen, and he finally lurched upright into a sitting position, gasping and clutching his head.  
    As a badger, Chunt could dispense with any pretense of needing to wear clothes and get straight to wearing them as a statement. This week, he happened to trying out a jaunty neckerchief, which to be honest wasn’t really working for him. He thought he might try headwear next. At any rate he wasn’t feeling at all precious about the kerchief and removed it, guiding the stranger to press it against his bleeding head.  
    “This is no place for a nap, snuggle vines almost got you. What are you doing out here, Arnie?”  
    “Where…I was at Burger King, and then…and then…” The part of Arnie’s brain which was responsible for deciding what was real and what was simply silly was having a very bad day, so it can hardly be blamed for deciding to accelerate right over the plausibility speedbump that was “talking badger” straight to having a conversation. Still, he squinted hard at the small creature in front of him, which was currently wavering black and white at the edges in his swimming vision. “Are…you’re a badger…?”  
    “Shapeshifter,” came the swift and mildly huffy correction.  
    “…what?” Based on the look, the information had not taken at all. Chunt decided this was no time to take offense and didn’t repeat himself. The human grimaced in pain. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I…know what part of Chicago this is…is everything supposed to be spinning?”  
    Chunt frowned heavily. He wasn’t sure if it was the head injury, or a creative grasp of reality, but so far the human hadn’t said anything that made much sense. He didn’t feel right about any of this, and even though every instinct he had was telling him at every step to leave this stranger to his fate, somehow he couldn’t just leave him there. Night was settling in fast, and a decision had to be made. He’d take him to the wizard.  
    “Listen, uh, Arnie, we’re going to walk back into town and get you some help.” Chunt fished around in the leaf litter of the forest floor, picking up sticks, sizing them up and throwing them away before finally settling on a long, largely straight fallen limb. He quickly snapped off a few small branches, gave it a shake to loose any remaining leaves, and presented it. “Can you stand? The answer is yes. C’mon, keep up.”  
    Without waiting, Chunt set off back towards town, subtly but anxiously casting his gaze behind him. He was relieved to see the stranger pause only briefly before pulling himself to his feet and stumbling after him, leaning heavily on the branch to keep his balance as he went. Chunt carefully slowed his pace so he was only a step or two ahead, keeping a close eye on the unsteady gait of his new companion, as the mismatched pair forged through the twilight wood; away from certain doom, into an uncertain future.

 

* * *

 

  
    Despite the density of the forest, they were in actuality quite close to the edge, specifically where it backed up to the Vermillion Minotaur. The exterior lanterns had already been lit in advance of the setting sun, though the windows still dimly reflected the pink tones of a sunset sky. The tavern itself was partially built into and carved out of one of the most stalwart, ancient trees, still clinging to life at its crown. Chunt sent the stranger in the back door first, pausing for a moment to nervously scan the forest edge before following; though he could not have said why. Only his sharp ears might’ve caught the rustle of brush as something turned back at the edge of the trees and slipped away back into the dim, but he was busy with other concerns.  
    Chunt hurried through the steaming and sizzling kitchen, studiously ignoring the suspicious glare of the proprietor’s second hand man, as well as the menacing glint off his knife as he paused mid-chop. Otok was kind and entirely too trusting, flaws that until now Chunt had not suspected in himself. But he nevertheless herded the injured stranger, still dazed and stumbling, out into the bustling bar.  
    It was still early, but the tavern was filling quickly with boisterous locals come for food, drink, and commiseration. Chunt had to guide the stranger by the hand like an overgrown child between tables and confused and curious customers. He caught Otok’s eye on their way, not acknowledging the barkeep’s baffled expression.  
    “Where’s the wizard?” the badger barked at him. Otok silently motioned to a table in the corner, currently drifting in and out of dramatic shadow against the orange tide of the firelight.  
    The wizard in question was muttering to himself while appearing to be in deep contemplation of something at the bottom of his mug, not at all unlike many of the less magical regulars. He’d been coming in for a few weeks, drinking and accosting everyone he could to join some quest which he shouted about in entirely too loud a voice but never seemed likely to make much progress on. There were worse excuses to spend one’s evenings in a tavern, however, and no one present felt in a position to question his life choices. Only, occasionally, his volume.  
    “Usidore!” Chunt had come across the wizard a number of times, as he’d circled through town over the years on his meandering recruitment campaign. Once they got past the quest conversation, he wasn’t half bad company; though every time it seemed they had to have it anew. Usidore was nothing if not an optimist, he’d give him that.  
    The wizard looked up, still unfocused, and glanced up and down at the odd pair in front of him.  
    “Oh, Chunt…have you…come to join mine quest?” The faintest edge of expectation twinkled in the wizards’ eyes beneath his hat brim as he looked up; which might’ve seemed magical and exciting if he hadn’t had to pause to swat a small feather out of his eyelashes.  
    “No, Usidore, I found this guy in the forest and—“  
    Chunt didn’t make it past the wizard’s name the second time before he rose and began shouting the full version in a full-throated roar. The sheer bluster of it seemed likely to knock the stranger off his feet, so Chunt guided him into a seat while the proceedings continued.  
    “Listen, Usidore, like I was trying to say - I found this guy in the woods, passed out, about to be a snack. He keeps saying he came from Shee-ka-go, and I thought maybe you’d have heard of it.”  
    The wizard seated himself again with a dramatic flip of his robes, narrowly avoiding flashing the entire tavern. He pondered deeply for a moment before replying. “I have traveled all o’er Foon, and I cannot say that I’ve ever come across a Shee-ka-go.”  
    “Foon? Isn’t that…like a spork?” the stranger suddenly interjected, looking momentarily pleased to have seized on anything seemingly familiar.  
    “‘Spork’?”  
    “Part spoon, part fork…” The human weakly attempted to demonstrate an invisible utensil. Usidore and Chunt exchanged a moderately horrified look of confusion at this concept, which they were most certainly picturing as a double-ended monstrosity of a weapon, or possibly a pleasure device, or both. The stranger didn’t notice, as he was now too busy looking nervously around the tavern at its motley, not exclusively human, patrons. “Listen, where…” He leaned forward to stage whisper in the sort of tone one uses when they’ve promptly forgotten the name of the person they’ve just met. “…I don’t know what part of Chicago this is.”  
    “What? No, this is Hogsface, my boy.” Usidore gave a slightly jovial laugh, just trying to lighten the mood any way he could. He toyed with the theory the stranger was some wayward child who’d stolen some magical growth potion. Clearly, he’d taken entirely too much of it.  
    Chunt noticed Arnie was listing a bit to one side, like an unmoored ship, and gave him a gentle push back to upright; but it did nothing to correct the confusion. “…the town is called…Hogface?” Arnie repeated.  
    “Hogsface,” the wizard reiterated, slowly and with more volume, a foolproof way to improve comprehension. Not seeing the expected flash of recognition, he leaned forward in his seat, suddenly regarding the newcomer carefully. He was certainly dressed both unusually and unfashionably.  
    As the wizard peered intently at him, Arnie found himself stifling an involuntary giggle at the thought of how much this wizard looked like a third-rate children’s party Gandalf who’d rolled through a Party City and straight out into a gutter.  
    “Hogface. Like a pig’s…face?” Arnie was finding that all new information was taking several moments to sink through several layers of concussion, confusion, and absurdity to a point where he could reckon with it in the slightest, and even that was only working in fits and starts.  
    Usidore sniffed, and didn’t correct him again. He now strongly suspected the boy had not had much sense even prior to having the remainder knocked out of him.  
    Twilight was deepening to dark outside, and Otok was moving from table to table lighting the candles as shadows crept in from the corners. Instead of waiting for him to come round, Usidore cast a light spell on the wax pillar at the center of the table. This very concrete, noticeable shift in accepted reality made Arnie jump back in his seat as if he’d been bitten by a viper, only avoiding spilling onto the floor thanks to another supportive shove from Chunt.  
    He stared at the candle with awe quickly threatening to tip into panic. “This is…some kind of trick, right?” Arnie’s quiet laugh had a sharp edge of rising hysteria under it. “This is all just some messed up renfaire Medieval Times performance art…?”  
    “Calm down, Arnie, it’s just magic,” Chunt chided; adding, under his breath, “What do they teach in the schools in Shee-ka-go…”  
    “…magic? That’s not…that’s not possible…” Arnie’s voice slipped into a higher register, as if the information was sucking all the oxygen out of the room and replacing it with helium. Chunt’s faint sense of unease returned in force at the reaction.    
    “I assure you it IS possible, for mine very existence is the result of a conspiracy of wind, and birds, and —“ Usidore caught Chunt’s frantic signalling to stop, and noted the human’s pallor, and desisted. Somewhat grumpily. But still, he’d never seen the shapeshifter so worked up over anyone, and that alone gave him pause in determining whether the stranger’s appearance was somehow of import, in spite of the general inconvenience of it all.  
    Chunt put a reassuring paw on Arnie’s arm. “Listen, don’t worry about it, what you need…is a drink.”  
    “Yes, yes, drinks for everyone. What would you like, Chunt?” A little too eagerly, Usidore agreed to an excuse to step away for a moment; being drawn into this whole strange situation was really cutting into his plans to…well, he didn’t have plans, but he was suddenly wishing he did. But still, he had a duty to Foon, and all of the people in it; which, at present, included the stranger. And taking drink orders. “And a mead, Arnold, how does that sound?”  
    “It’s…it’s Arnie…” the human muttered, slightly defeated, but still clinging to the correction as if for dear life.  
    “Right, two ales and a mead with some raspberry.” The wizard bustled away, pleased to have something specific to do.  
    Arnie was silent while Usidore went to the bar, staring at the wood grain of the table, clearly struggling with some internal computations in which the math of his concept of reality and his current situation simply didn’t add up. It was, Chunt supposed, not an uncommon expression to see in a tavern; becoming insensible was a fair antidote to the nonsensical nature of life.  
    Usidore returned with three wooden tankards, somewhat rough-hewn, banded and rimmed in steel, and placed the fullest one in front of Arnie. He winked conspiratorialy at Chunt and gestured to a small bottle of potion up his sleeve as the human took a large, somewhat desperate gulp. After his earlier reaction, he’d decided slipping him some healing potion without his knowledge was the course of least resistance. Without receiving acknowledgment, Usidore waggled his eyebrows as well. Chunt finally rolled his eyes and shrugged; but Arnie had already polished off half his mead, and his head wound had improved dramatically almost instantaneously and without his notice.  
    The wizard sat and leaned forward once more, but with a serious expression and a much lower tone than he’d exhibited previously as the firelight threw both deep shadows into the crags of his face and bright flashes of flame into his eyes. “Now, listen, Arnold, I want you to drink this, and I also want you to tell me exactly how you came to be in McShingleshane Forest.”

 

* * *

  
    It took a great many tangents and conversational circles as they struggled to understand and believe each other, but after a solid half hour and a second round of drinks, they all found themselves facing an inescapable, improbable conclusion: that Arnie had accidentally fallen into Foon from another world.  
    “Naturally everyone knows there are other realms, countless other versions of our reality, but to fall through from a world without magic…” Usidore muttered half to himself, fidgeting with a small, smooth stone he’d pulled from a hidden pocket at some point. It seemed impossible that anyone from as mundane a place as this ‘Chicago’ Arnold had described could have such great magics as to open a dimensional portal without even trying to, let alone in total ignorance of their own abilities. And yet, curiosity aside, the matter at hand was how to undo it, not how (or why) it had been done. The wizard tried to disregard his bone-deep certainty that fate must have been a factor; and where fate led, destiny surely followed, unlikely a mantle as it seemed for this particular stranger. “Chunt, did you see the portal?”  
    The shapeshifter shook his head. “No. Anything large enough to fit him through, I’d have noticed.”  
    “It takes great power to open a rift between worlds, and even more to maintain one. It may be that it closed behind him.” Usidore frowned, stroking his beard absentmindedly.  
    This information registered somewhat slowly with Arnie, but when it did make its way through, it landed like a ton of bricks. He turned to the wizard with a profound look of horror and fear. “What? No, no, then you have to open another one. You— you said he’s a wizard, right?!”  
    Far out of his depth in every sense, Chunt didn’t know what to do but shrug helplessly.  
    Usidore shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Arnold, I don’t know that I can—“  
    Arnie leapt to his feet, as unexpectedly to himself as his companions, slamming both hands down on the table with such force the tankards rattled and threatened to tip over. “No, no, no, you don’t understand. You don’t understand, I’ve got a wife, a wife and a newborn baby — I have to get home. I can’t stay here, I have to get back.”  
    The man’s large frame was visibly shaken by tremors of desperation as he stared down the startled wizard, and Chunt instinctively wrapped a paw around the human’s forearm as though afraid he might reach for a sword otherwise. He almost immediately realized what he’d briefly mistaken for rage was abject terror, and adjusted his approach accordingly.  
    “Arnie, Arnie, take it easy.” He attempted his most calming voice, the one he used when he was about to get in trouble for something he’d absolutely done. “It’s okay, Usidore will help you, we’ll help you. Right, Usidore?”  
    “Well, hrm, I’ll certainly…” the wizard stammered equivocally, caught between a sharp glare from Chunt and a lost child expression on Arnie. He let out the tiniest of sighs, then stood as well, stamping his staff on the stone floor and raising himself up with all the wizardly pride he could muster. “I will do everything in my power to aid thee,” he intoned gravely, “and if it is at all possible, I shall find a way to return thee to thine home and thine family. All shall be set right.”  
    Usidore put a gentle hand on Arnie’s shoulder and the human nodded, slowly, and collapsed back down into the chair as if his legs had surrendered entirely to gravity.  
    “I’m…I’m sorry for shouting,” he mumbled, in such a defeated and diminished voice that the other two could not think of anything to reply, though they suddenly wished they could.  
    The trio sat in silence for what seemed like a long while, as it all fully sank in. The sounds of the tavern seemed to fall away into the broad, deep sea of night. Chunt tried to imagine being something he’d never been, no matter how many shapes he’d taken: a stranger in an unfamiliar land. He pictured Hogsface and Foon stretching out in the dark beyond the walls of the tavern, all the places he had been and heard of, and tried to paint it blank. Usidore thought of the birds, and the familiar whispers of the wind, and the Great Halls of Terr’akas, his long 300 years and his quest; and of who he would be if one day out of the blue they were lost to him. And both of them tried to imagine something they’d never even known, a great love and a child suddenly torn away by impossible, insurmountable distance, a storm of uncertainties between them.  
    And Arnie himself felt so profoundly alone and lost that he couldn’t do anything but cling to the edge of the tavern table, head bowed; white-knuckling against the wood, the only thing that felt solid and familiar enough to keep him from being completely adrift.  
    Whatever fate, or destiny, or cruel accident had brought him to Foon, the world Chunt and Usidore had known their entire lives suddenly seemed much darker and more perilous as its weight bore down on Arnie Niekamp; and they both knew in that moment they couldn’t leave him to face it alone.

 

* * *

  
    There was nothing for it that night, though, but to ply his anxieties and grief as well as they could with liquor. Whether it was exhaustion or the head injury, it didn’t take much. When they asked Arnie if he had any money for a room at the tavern, he showed them a thin, hard rectangle; they concluded from this evidence that he shouldn’t be left unsupervised. So instead, Chunt led him to his own home, talking incessantly about nothing to try to lift the burden of silence, the large man trailing behind him uncertain and unsteady in the dark. It was a procedure getting the tall human into his hovel, but they managed with minimal additional head injuries. Chunt offered his bed; a straw mattress on the floor, since he never was sure what kind of creature it would need to support. Arnie sat down, and didn’t seem to have the will to even remove his shoes. Chunt found himself doing it, as one would for a child, though slightly mystified by their strange material and style. He went to fetch some water so Arnie could at least wash his face; but when he returned the human was curled up awkwardly on the mattress, arms wrapped around himself, with his face to the wall. He paused for a moment; but since there wasn’t even a flicker of motion he set the washbasin aside and pulled a blanket over Arnie as well as he could.  
    That first night, Chunt slept poorly, though he wasn’t sure why. He found that he kept checking on the stranger, rolling out of his blanket nest on the couch and peering into the dim moonlight to ensure his charge was still there and breathing. Being responsible for anything besides himself was an unfamiliar feeling, and he was equally sure it was unpleasant and important.  
    On his third check, he could see the large man’s shoulders shuddering, and wasn’t at all sure whether it was cold or grief. He debated for what felt like hours standing in the dark, then laid his own blanket down at Arnie’s back, curling himself up against his shoulders. At first, he felt a slight recoil, but the human didn’t move away. After a moment, the muscles relaxed; and after a while longer Chunt finally fell asleep himself, to the reassuring rhythm of his new companion’s deep breathing.


	2. Chapter 2

    They found the portal again on Arnie’s first full day in Foon. Chunt was quite surprised, but once he’d led Arnie to the edge of the woods, he somehow fixed on it like a homing pigeon. There were a few detours, to be sure, and quite a lot of complaining about all the walking. But Chunt had not been in the least convinced they’d find it at all. Usidore had declined to even come for reasons known only to him, making awkward excuses about going in search of magical books that might be relevant. Chunt would’ve appreciated the wizard’s company. The forest was deep and changeable, and almost certainly cursed, and so far Arnie was making a case for being the least lucky person he’d ever met. He was considering a betting pool on how long the human would even survive in Foon, and what misadventure would do the trick. He suspected he might not have time to set it up, as he’d had to stop Arnie from strolling straight back into the snuggle vine nest Chunt had found him in. It seemed equally as miraculous that he made it to the portal in one piece as having found it at all.  
    Still, while locating the dimensional rift might’ve been relatively easy and without major misfortune, determining what to do next was much less so. It was much smaller than it could’ve been when Arnie came through in this “car” he’d mentioned, which had to have been comparable to a large wagon to accommodate the human. The opening currently appeared to be only about the size of a respectable potato. There was clearly no way he was going back through as it was was. It wasn’t possible to see the other side through it either, like a keyhole, though they both tried. It didn’t quite seem visible, even, if you looked at it straight on. Lean a little bit round the side, and it was there; hovering a few feet off the ground and shimmering ever so slightly, the jagged edge of sheer and shifting colors against the objects beyond it. Staring at it too long caused a strange throbbing in the temples as if it was giving off invisible, brilliant light.  
    After some analysis (inept as it might’ve been, since neither was qualified to assess the physics of a magical portal), Arnie decided to try sticking his arm through. Chunt did not approve, suspecting it could snap shut on him, or anything could happen on the invisible other side. The endeavor was overly optimistic in the end, since he could only fit his hand through to just below the wrist. It wasn’t just the size of the opening that proved challenging, either. As soon as Arnie got close, he had a sensation not unlike a static shock, which only worsened. The portal was strangely resistant to the motion, as well, and it took quite a lot of force to get his hand in at all. In some pain and not convinced it wouldn’t trap him like some kind of dimensional finger-trap (he had some bad childhood memories), he finally retreated.  
    Without a word, just a heavy frown and a disapproving huff, he plopped down on the ground facing the portal.  
    A few moments later he began fishing around on the ground for small pebbles and attempting to chuck them through instead. Between each he paused for some length of time, brow furrowed as if he was carefully calculating the arc and the wind. But his aim was disappointing at best; they fell short, sailed over, or bounced off some invisible barrier. But after about 20 tries - mostly laughable failures - one small stone simply vanished midair. There was no sound as it hit the ground, in that dimension or another. Arnie considered for a moment, then resumed the activity. Chunt was unclear of the goal, but Arnie was undertaking it with such seriousness he decided not to ask.  
    When it became clear Arnie intended to sit in front of the portal indefinitely, Chunt cleared away some sticks and rocks, gathered a bit of moss as a pillow, and settled down under a tree for a nap. An occasional disappointed “hmm.” manifested vaguely in his daydreams as a large, mopey bee, bumping clumsily and unsucessfully into a patch of flowers.  
    He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but he awoke to Arnie standing over him.  
    “Hey,” the human said, somewhat flatly. “I’m ready to go back to town.”

 

* * *

  
    The next day, they went through roughly the same routine. This time, Arnie had brought supplies with him; a bit of rough pressed paper and a charcoal stick he’d begged off Usidore. Once they were at the portal, he tore off a bit of the paper and after some consideration of the contents wrote a note. He rolled it up tightly and after a few failed attempts finding the right approach, managed to maneuver it into the portal with careful usage of a stick. Then, once again, he sat down in front of the portal; and waited. Chunt settled down once more and drifted into a sun-speckled doze.  
    Sitting on the forest floor and listening to soft snuffling snoring from Chunt, staring blankly at the impassive portal, Arnie realized he had no idea what to do next. The pebble experiment had at least proven objects pushed into the portal went somewhere, and he had to assume that was to Earth. He’d considered simply driving the Camry full speed at the rift, hoping that it might…open wider? Shatter? He wasn’t sure. But the idea didn’t hold any water and he knew it. He’d hardly been the fast or the furious when he came through in the first place; he had no idea how any of this worked. Usidore hadn’t been much help explaining it so far, either, and he suspected he didn’t really understand either. He also figured he might need Chunt’s help to clear the branches to move the car, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to show him yet. He couldn’t pinpoint it, really, but somehow it felt like it would make him too vulnerable. The car felt like an ace in the hole against the whole impossible situation and he wasn’t ready to play it. Not yet.  
    The problem seemed so far outside his wheelhouse he simply didn’t know where to begin. His only reference point was fiction, and in that context it honestly seemed even more absurd. He wasn’t the sort of person this kind of thing was supposed to happen to. Not a lot of Midwestern dads fighting dragons. Were there dragons in Foon? He hadn’t asked. He should ask. That would really be something, wouldn’t it? He suddenly thought how incredible that would be, to tell Sarah about meeting a dragon. But the abrupt instinctive excitement of sharing the story with his wife, with his friends, the world abruptly fell away when he realized he was still in it. What a poor choice of a hero he was for that story, too, sitting here staring at a hole.  
    Just as reflex, he pulled out his phone; he’d kept it on him, even though it was almost completely useless, as a sort of anchor to his own world. Never without a phone; the modern condition. Once when their wi-fi had gone out, he’d — wait. The wi-fi. He’d checked for cellular service, but what about wi-fi? That was basically magic anyway, right? He frantically dug into the settings menus. In fact, wi-fi was off. Battery drain, a co-worker had told him, don’t leave it on when you’re out too long. He flipped it back on, and barely dared to breathe as the phone searched for networks. It was futile, it was desperate, it was a ridiculous idea…and he got a result.  
    It was the most impossible thing he’d seen in Foon so far, but there it was: “Whopper”. It was weak, very weak, but it was there. He surprised himself by giggling somewhat maniacally. He really did get that Whopper.  
  
    Chunt swatted as if at a bug in response to Arnie’s excited reactions, then settled back down.  
    The results were less immediately satisfying than he’d hoped. The phone was connecting for an absurdly long time. Just as he thought it would never go through, he managed to get to the confirmation screen. Immediately, he opened Twitter, thinking he could send a cry for help to the most people at once that way. But he underestimated using a graphics-heavy app on the straining signal. He was old enough to remember the agony of dial-up, but this was on another level. It was as if he could hear each pixel grinding through the weak connection, one at a time.  
    As he watched his timeline try to load at the speed of a lethargic elderly snail - half of it promoted tweets with some autoplay video, of course - it dawned on him that he didn’t know what to even say. It would sound totally absurd. Everyone would think he’d been hacked, had a breakdown and run off to Wisconsin Dells, or was angling to go viral. An email describing how he’d fallen through a portal behind a Burger King into the land of Foon would get shunted into the same folder as the Nigerian princes and discount Canadian drugs. He had to have some kind of proof attached, any proof. But even a photo might never send, and it might take a video. Even then, how could he prove he was telling the truth, and hadn’t just bribed a renfaire?  
    After a lengthy cascade of failed half-concepts an idea abruptly pinged into and around Arnie’s brain, bouncing and banging like pinball, trying to find its target. When it connected, it was to great internal fanfare and flashing lights.  
    He knew what to do, and he knew just what he’d need to do it.  
  
    Chunt was having a very nice dream about being crowned the king of burgers on the steps of his very own restaurant when Arnie woke him up abruptly. He squinted judgmentally at the human, who had somehow acquired a large black bag, of construction which would indicate it was not from Foon.  
    He slung it over his shoulder. “I have an idea,” he said, simply, but with a spark in his eyes that took Chunt by surprise.  
    Chunt peered at him, still a bit dazed from dreaming. Arnie didn’t wait for his companion and set off into the woods at an impressive, determined pace.  
    He was going the wrong way. But, Chunt mused, any sign of initiative was an improvement. He jumped up and set off after the human to steer him back on course.

 

* * *

  
      
    Usidore was quite bewildered by the purpose and enthusiasm with which Arnie charged into the tavern. His initial hope that Arnie had come around on the quest was quickly dashed, however. He was still somewhat pleased to learn Arnie had come up with some plan to return to his world, but when he started going on about casting pods, Usidore and Chunt thought he might’ve had a breakdown from despair.  
    Arnie didn’t wait, however, for their agreement or even their understanding before he was covering the table in odd metal objects and a snarl of cables. The ongoing discussion involved a long string of explanations he was not at all prepared to give, no matter how much they pressed him for answers. Usidore and Chunt were almost taken aback by the sudden positivity, but their ultimate takeaway from the conversation was that Arnie was dedicated to the idea. That sliver of hope seemed far too fragile and precious for them to continue questioning it. And when it became clear all he expected them to do was talk to him and drink, which was already the evening’s schedule, they had no reason not to agree to his plan. The funny metal eggs on the table weren’t a dealbreaker. Nor were they eggs, which Chunt found out the hard way by taking an inquisitive nibble while Arnie was trying to convince Usidore they were neither magic nor rocks.  
    Still, it seemed baffling and unlikely that their conversation, even transcribed in some way onto the magical flat chest full of information he had, could help him get home. Even getting the ‘pod cast’ to his world was no simple undertaking. After the first recording, it took a full week of attempts and cursing before Arnie confirmed that it had gotten through, by means they failed to understand fully. Usidore thought perhaps the weefy was some sort of invisible magic bird that was carrying it and was very disappointed to be corrected. Perhaps if it had been, it would’ve been more reliable. They also didn’t follow the part about needing approval from some sort of musical eye. But, he assured them, once it was up the people of his world would surely listen. They tried not to be skeptical that anyone who’d listen to their conversations for fun would be in any position to save him.  
    But even if they were profoundly unsure that the podcast would aid in Arnie’s rescue or return, it had other benefits. It hadn’t taken long for both Chunt and Usidore to realize that their de facto charge really should not be left alone, generally, and not just for his physical safety. Alone, he sank into melancholy silence, and would sit in the same place for hours. If asked questions, especially about his world, he’d mumble a non-reply. But take him to the tavern, and he’d happily talk to even the most dull or obnoxious local as if their every word was a treasure. It made sense, in some incredibly non-sensical way.  
    Otok took some convincing; especially after seeing the strange series of devices the podcast required; and after Usidore’s first attempt at charging the laptop with a focused lightning spell went astray and set fire to a perfectly good chair, and a largely acceptable patron in it. Still, he not only agreed that they could do their ‘recordings’ in the tavern but acquiesced to their suggestion he take Arnie on as additional help, which they hoped would both compensate somewhat for the inconvenience and keep Arnie out of trouble. It backfired immediately, however, since no matter how many times that first week they told him about his new task, he would go to the tavern, sit down at the same table, and simply wait until Chunt and Usidore showed up in the evenings. Otok could’ve pressed him harder to work; but in the end his tab was always paid, and so he let it go. Chunt suspected that Otok had quickly come to realize he liked having the consistent company of someone infinitely more personable than Blemish, no matter his other faults. The standard was not high, admittedly; and Otok had always loved strays, orphans, and hopeless causes, anyway.  
    And it was quite honestly fascinating to watch, the stranger’s sole apparent skill. No matter their walk of life, somehow Arnie could get anyone talking, on the grand scale and the personal. He was as talented at getting everyone else to open up as he was frustratingly closed-off about his own world and life, in spite of Usidore’s hope to learn something - anything - relevant to how he got there. Or, more secretively, why. He also had an exasperating habit, once conversations got going, of blundering straight into offensive comments and overly personal questions. Not everyone was willing to give him a pass for being from another world, either, and quite a few casual conversations would have become assassination attempts if Chunt or Usidore had not skillfully intervened.  
    Even in the somewhat tedious and awkward position of steering a grown man through everyday trials become massive pitfalls, they both found they couldn’t quite resent doing it. Somehow it only deepened a growing protective care, in spite of it all. Or maybe because of; there was something in his childlike demeanor, amazed and bewildered as he was by things they took for granted, that they desperately wanted to protect. A precious seed of wonder, perhaps; one that did not thrive well in the soil of Foon, stained as it was with the blood of the frequently misfortunate young. And, also, when his sadness slipped out it was so profound as to inspire an equal ferocity of love. The times they could pull him from his grief felt like working a great and powerful magic, whatever absurdity led to or from it. He was foolish, to be sure; but he was quickly becoming their fool.  
    It was that feeling that kept them from throwing him to the wolves, quite literally and despite very persuasive arguments on their part. Everything in Foon had to eat, after all. Including Arnie, though that first week it was difficult to get him to do so, in spite of his proclaimed passion for food. Usidore was initially concerned he might expire just of starvation, though Chunt assured the wizard that Arnie had enough in reserve. Still, it was troublesome finding anything he’d even consider eating, much to Otok’s consternation in particular. They tried everything they could think of, but so little in Foon seemed familiar and appealing they could barely imagine what he must’ve eaten on Earth. They finally had luck with soup; they suspected this was since everyone expects soup to be at least moderately mysterious. That first week, it was almost all he ate, aside from accepting a few eggs and fish from Chunt. Usidore kept ordering and extolling the virtues of spiced potatoes in the vain hope he could be swayed. He had no luck, even when he tried cutting them up and pretending a spoon was a bird; and then the spell to make the spoon a bird had ended badly, in a flurry of feathers and rage.  
    Usidore was, generally, deeply frustrated by Arnie’s strangely unimpressed attitude towards his magic. It made no sense that he’d come from a mundane world, been so startled by a basic light spell, and now was thoroughly apathetic about the powers of the greatest wizard in Foon. It was vexing. Very vexing. But he also couldn’t shake off the idea that the otherworldly human was there for a reason, and so he studied Arnold closely for any glimmer of magic or other mysterious aspect. In the long nights, he set aside his other endeavors to seek some kind of answer. He pored over any texts relating to other planes or dimensions, perused all the prophecies he had access to, even sent messages via bird emissary to a few peers. He told the others very little of his efforts, for fear of planting hope that would wither into bitterness if he did not succeed. But even as his candles burned down, and the dead ends piled up, he resolved not to surrender.    
    And for Chunt’s part, he found that the sharp angles of fitting Arnie into his life rounded off much faster than he expected, to the point that he often simply forgot about the blank spaces between them. Of course it helped that he took up so much actual physical space, and had in fact knocked a few holes in the wall of Chunt’s hovel - which they had decided would be Arnie’s temporary housing - before he got the hang of the cramped quarters. He’d quickly adapted, however, and it was impressive to see the relative grace with which he managed to maneuver. He also proved to be an effective stepladder, even if he didn’t fully approve of Chunt occasionally scampering onto his shoulders to reach a high shelf. Teamwork, Chunt assured him, and Arnie would gruffly acquiesce. In those moments it already felt as though Arnie had always been there, and any chafing of the edges of their lives just a usual side effect; and Chunt didn’t want to name the feeling he got when he imagined his departure.  
    So every day Chunt and Arnie went together to the woods, to check to see if there was any sign the podcast or the paper messages were received. And every day, the brightness Arnie carried as they walked there fell under a nearly unbearable shadow when they invariably failed to find any evidence of success or prospect of rescue. Privately, Chunt suspected Arnie was beginning to wonder if anyone was even looking. If you live only as long as you’re remembered, what are you if missing is as good as forgotten?    
    It seemed so much bigger than either of them, the burden of that uncertainty. Ultimately it was easier to shelter from rain than to try and shout down the clouds. So they talked about it less and less, and about other things more and more; and Arnie seemed a little less sad.  
    And so they kept him fed, and housed, and as hopeful as they could manage. And neither Usidore nor Chunt voiced the quiet tug of doubt that he would really make it back to his world, nor admitted even to themselves the increasing desire he stay. Perhaps if they had, they might’ve prevented word of his presence from traveling quite so far, and done more to keep him safe. Or perhaps they were always meant to do just that.


	3. Chapter 3

    At the end of that first week, Chunt and Arnie both staggered into Chunt’s hovel, more than a little tipsy. That night at the Minotaur, he and Usidore had tried to teach him some Foonian drinking songs, but Arnie kept banging on about some chum of his named Wumba or some other Earth nonsense. They’d given up and on the walk back were just singing whatever they wanted at the same time, seeing who could be louder. An owl had hooted at them very disapprovingly as they passed. Chunt had strongly and graphically suggested what the owl might do with its opinion, and which orifices it might involve, setting off a giggling fit from Arnie that was only just subsiding.  
    They hadn’t left the tavern totally of their own volition, either; Otok had sent them on their way in no uncertain terms after an admittedly very minor dustup with a gang of squirrels. Apparently one of them was a cousin of Chunt’s ex, and there was immediately some agressively worded criticism about his handling of the breakup (in fairness it wasn’t so much a breakup as last rites, following a bad date at Makeout Point). Before he could manage much diplomacy a drunken Arnie had tried to challenge them on his behalf. It had been less of a bar fight and more of a jig gone wrong, as the squirrels swarmed the human and neither party was very effective.  
    Chunt himself had caught a mug to the eyebrow, although it was from Arnie stumbling into the table after one of the more ballsy squirrels attempted a targeted attack up one pant leg. Usidore had subsequently frozen the lot of them in place, given a bit of a lecture about resolving disputes in a healthy fashion, and the entire incident had ended with almost embarrassingly minor injuries. Primarily to everyone’s pride; and Otok’s patience.  
    Arnie felt pretty bad about the whole failed attempt at heroism, though, and had been apologizing most of the way back. It was quite sweet, even if it was thoroughly fermented in some very strong mead.  
    “Hang on, I think I have some band-aids in my backpack…” Arnie mumbled as he lumbered in. Chunt wasn’t in a mood to ask what help a band could provide at this point. Arnie fished through the bag for a few minutes, tossing a few stray items out onto the floor; detritus of his life, now artifacts from a distant world. He pulled something out, stared at his hand for a moment, and then let out a strange, choked sound akin to a gasp. He collapsed to his knees in a heap, a tower abruptly without foundation.  
    “Arnie! You okay?” He hadn’t had THAT much to drink, and how much damage could a few squirrels do, it was more than a little melodramatic…  
    As he came over to check on his companion, Chunt could see something small in Arnie’s hand. When he got close enough to identify it, he could see it was a lone, impossibly small sock, white with a pink toe and band.  
    In that tiny object, perhaps the most lost it could ever be, all his questions were instantly answered.  
  
  
    It was a lovely day in Chicago; the sky sliding out from clouds and into the sharp, high blue of winter. The sun was still clinging to some warmth, too, and they hadn’t had to bundle up too much on the baby’s walk earlier. Now she was down for a perfectly timed nap, and Sarah was snug on the couch folding laundry to the soft murmur of the TV. She’d even treated herself to just the tiniest glass of late afternoon wine before making dinner. What could be missing, really?  
    Just as she was thinking that, she found something odd tangled in some PJs that had turned up stuck behind the hamper. Sarah stared at the single sock, frozen by the anachronism of its presence. It was too big by far to be one of hers, a men’s athletic style, well-worn. It was innocuous enough in and of itself; surely it was a neighbor’s stray from the dryer. There was no other reasonable explanation for its presence. Certainly the shirts that didn’t belong to her, and the heavy winter coat in the closet in a size big enough to swallow her, the drawers she didn’t open, the mens’ sneakers in the hall she’d been meaning to give away…that wasn’t strange, at all. Was it?  
    But this sock. This sock, innocently wrapped inside her sleep shirt like a lost kitten, tripped something. A thought deep in her mind, a strong winter wind cutting through every layer. She couldn’t hold onto it, but it wouldn’t let her go, either. It pulled like the phantom strands of a spiderweb. It was the sense of trying to remember something distantly forgotten but deeply important; as if she’d left a door ajar, but in her childhood home. No, bigger. Smoke that led to the memory of a fire. Something warm and familiar but dangerous. Maybe that feeling she got in the middle of the night, bolted awake, desperate to check the baby monitor but unsure why. The harder she strained to focus on the cause, the more her attention slipped off, as though it was made of treacherous black ice.  
    For the tiniest instant she had it - a name that was instantly drowned in a void of pain, confusion and longing - but then even that was gone again. It was replaced with only the vaguest unease, pulling weakly at her sleeve. Down in the deep corners of her heart where only the most sacred, precious things live and cannot be dislodged.  
    Such a nice day, she thought, reaching for her wine and letting her gaze resettle on the mundane nonsense on the TV. A couple arguing mildly about tile and a sale on mattresses. Surely everything was in its right place on such a nice day.  
    

    There was nothing for Chunt to do when the dam finally broke but sit beside Arnie, put a hand on his shoulder, and simply be there. Frankly, he’d thought it would happen sooner, and hadn’t been sure if it was foolishness or hope preventing it. Maybe there wasn’t much difference between the two. Foon was often a hard world, and perhaps it made its inhabitants hard in some ways. Chunt had wondered that about himself, sometimes, especially when he thought maybe he’d lost his chance at real love before ever finding it. But nothing can scar that didn’t bleed, and every wound must breathe to heal. So they both let it.  
    It was some time before Arnie was able to speak, his voice struggling to rise above the waves, carrying the thought they’d both been too afraid to speak aloud before then. Words had power, over the heart and the world. “What if — I — never—“  
    Chunt didn’t let him gasp out any more than that. “Shh. C’mon, buddy, don’t worry. We’re going to keep doing this ‘pod-cast’, your wife will hear it, and we’re going to figure out how to get you home. You WILL get home.” Despite his commitment to sounding reassuringly confident, his words cracked a little at the edges; especially on that last part.  
    It was just enough of a lifeline to pull the human from the worst of it, even if there was nothing more either of them could say. It didn’t take much coaxing to ease Arnie into bed now he was left empty and exhausted. Chunt tucked him in, just as he had that first night; with a hand made even gentler by familiarity.  
    “You’re a good friend,” Arnie mumbled as the strong tide of fatigue and drink pulled him into unconsciousness. He was still clutching that tiny thread of his manifest loss, a precious line to shore.  
    “You’re a good friend, Arnie,” Chunt replied, soft and more than a little sadly, snugging the blanket around the human’s shoulders with care.  
    He waited until the sniffling had stopped, and the breathing had steadied and slowed. Then he nestled up against the human’s back and let the usual melody of soft snoring carry him as well, off into some precious span of certainty. Where all the things he most needed to believe, for himself and for Arnie, were true.  
    He painted that world outwards into the dark as he fell asleep. The town of Hogsface, sleeping safe and softly firelit. Usidore in his house on the hill, dozing on the mystical tomes he was delving so deeply, their solutions surely slumbering for the moment too. McShingleshane Forest dark and still, its deep secrets held like bated breath. All the evils in the land at least temporarily stymied in their machinations, to give all the kinder creatures safe passage into even brief respite from fear. High above, the stars turning languidly, steered with steady hand by Foo, Oo and Oon. Ever onward towards some clear and welcome destiny. Maybe twin stars shining over that other world, too, a shared map to lead every foundering ship back to the same shore. To where they belonged.  
  
    And spinning amongst the stars in the far away sky, even beyond Chunt’s imagination, someone lonely drifted off to the static of a silent station awaiting another signal.  
      
     _Everything in its right place._


End file.
